August 16, 2010Wolfcry

Upon a crag in the mountains, a child waits.
Paralyzed in the leering eyes of a beast whose blood quakes.
And although the red traces of the chase shall remain smeared,
The art and faults of a Promethean will, in time, reveal the feared.

Only the sundial knows, between the two, whose instincts remain true.
As iron sharpens iron and a wolf cry calls for a whole slew.
His hallucinations become true as one beast becomes a hundredfold.
And whispers in the wind summon his naked bones to assume a lull.

Fire, Water, Dirt and Wind; he knows he can never retrieve.
And his burning pruritus have hindered his will to succeed.
His foes become copious as his hunger for strength climbs drastically.
But, praise the heavens, for here cometh a potency miraculously.

A storm of iron arrows fall down to the crag, missing the wolves.
Shocked, by the fortune of his prayers, the child gazes at his tools.
From the final roar of the storm flashes down a bow with a screech.
The wolves howl from the horrid sound as the child becomes meek.

Knowing his success shall be righteous, he sprints towards his blessings he counted two-hundredfold.
Quickly, dashes of a boy become strides of the bold.
The keen fire in the wolves commands the chase to resume.
With iron & wood apprehended, “He’s given me the power,” he concludes.

Without hesitance, he gained the stance of a warrior and the heart of the God he extolled.
And as he drew the bow, frail became firm and iron became gold.
A thousand stars flew and immediately the beasts became no more.
And the boy was transformed into a lion of a man he never was before.